Though he left the fold for very different reasons, John Geoghan
may well wind up sharing space with Martin Luther on the roster of the
most famous former clergymen in Roman Catholic history.

On October 31, 1517, several years before his excommunication, Luther,
an Augustinian monk, sparked what would become the Protestant
Reformation by tacking his 95 theses to the door of a church in
Wittenberg, Germany.

The crisis Geoghan helped fuel does not yet have a name, but its origins
are easy enough to pin down.

It began back in January, when The Boston Globe revealed that rather
than turn the accused child molester over to the authorities, his
superiors, hoping to avoid a scandal, shuffled the now ex-priest between
parishes for three decades.

In the wake of the Geoghan expose, stories about other abusive priests -
and their bosses' attempts at cover-ups - have appeared in media outlets
nationwide, forcing dioceses to defend themselves against charges of
corruption.

Laymen, seizing upon the controversy, have used it to agitate for
long-sought policy changes. The situation has grown so dire that Pope
John Paul II, after weeks of leaving the US church to handle the problem
itself, recently summoned American Cardinals to an emergency meeting in
Rome.

According to a recent Washington Post/ABC News/Beliefnet poll, the
situation has become so heated that 71% of Catholics believe their
church is facing a full-blown crisis requiring immediate attention. And
just as it was in Luther's time, the higher-ups should have seen this
coming.

A crisis waiting to happen

The Catholic Church's singular structure and culture have created a PR
debacle decades in the making. But the priesthood is not the only
profession to bring itself grief by attempting to keep its members'
misdeeds secret.

Nor is it the only organization that stands to learn from the way this
most pernicious breed of crisis is dealt with over the long term.

There are no good excuses for the way the Church placed children at risk
by exposing them to the sexual predators within its ranks. There are,
however, a few explanations for why the situation got so out of
hand.

Catholic theology teaches that all wrongs can be forgiven. Coupled with
what psychologists once believed about pedophilia - that it was a
curable disorder - the Church's own doctrine of reconciliation led it to
treat a priest accused of child molestation the way it would any other
sinner: as someone who could be saved. Later, when the authorities began
to promote incarceration rather than the rehabilitation of sex
offenders, the practice wasn't applied equally to priests. The reason,
wrote Adam Liptak in The New York Times, is that "the criminal justice
system has been wary of taking on the church as an institution."

Seventeen years ago, the US Conference of Catholic Bishops received an
internal report outlining the legal and PR risks posed by its handling
of abuse cases. Its response, it would appear, was to concentrate on the
former in the hopes that it would also eliminate the latter. Because of
the religious freedom protections afforded to the church by the First
Amendment, accused clergymen were channeled through the civil courts -
where sealed cash settlements are an often-popular means for resolving
disputes. Since 1985, the church has paid out an estimated $1
billion to resolve the molestation charges brought against its
priests.

All that money would not have kept the church's problem out of the
public view if enough clergymen had come forward with details about
their colleagues' misdeeds. But priests - like employees in other fields
- have proven reluctant whistle-blowers. "The church is not alone in
that,

says Larry Smith, president of the Institute of Crisis
Management. "Attorneys and doctors look out for their own, and the
police have their Blue Wall of Silence."

The Reverend Charles Curran, a professor of human values at Southern
Methodist University, says that when it comes to his fellow priests, a
general "unwillingness to acknowledge the problem

has been combined
with a mindset rooted in outdated doctrine. "Before Vatican Two,

he
says, referring to the policy council that took place from 1962-1965,
"the spirit which characterized the church was one of triumphalism,
which ultimately sees the institution as wholly divine and without
spot."

"Therefore,

adds Curran, "church leaders have believed that they must
protect its reputation at all costs."

The church's approach to crisis communications has only fanned the
negative publicity. Corporations that find themselves mired in
controversy typically follow a standard playbook: "The CEO would have
now resigned, reforms would have been announced, and a blue ribbon
commission appointed,

says Helene Solomon, president of Bishoff Solomon
Communications. "They'd also have tried to get the good stories out
there - with the church, it would be about priests who are helping
victims - but you don't see those coming out. I find it interesting that
this has been happening at the same time as Andersen, which has taken
quick and decisive actions to put a face on its rank and file."

In place of a C-suite, American Catholics have their conference of
bishops, a body ill-equipped to execute the strategy Solomon describes.
"It's a structural problem,

explains Curran. "Rome and the Vatican have
downplayed the role of national conferences of bishops, and that has
made it difficult to set standards for all the dioceses. Any individual
bishop can do what he wants."

Rather than a single spokesperson, the US church has heard from a number
of local leaders; instead of a single plan for dealing with existing
abuse files - and preventing future crimes - parishioners have been
presented with positions ranging from foot-dragging to full-disclosure.
But more vexing still - at least by the standards of the 24-hour news
cycle - the people in the pews have often had to wait several days
before being told anything at all.

Slow response

"The church is responding the way a lot of other organizations have - by
taking a long time to get their messages out and convince their audience
that they understand their concerns,

"With most institutions that come under fire, you're talking about a
clear and present danger that can be dealt with right away,

adds M.
Cathleen Kaveny, a law professor and Catholic theologian at Notre Dame.
"If you've got cyanide-laced Tylenol, you get it off the shelves and
then put new caps on the bottles. But the deliberative process needed to
overcome a spiritual crisis doesn't occur on media time."

Sooner or later, reporters will move on to the next big scandal. Once
that occurs, the hierarchy's most crucial crisis work will still lay
ahead.

"The question I find so curious,

says Solomon, "is how do they win back
the credibility of everyday Catholics?"

The numbers suggest that the church had better come up with a strong
answer. The conference of bishops' $150 million budget is funded
by the dioceses, which in turn rely on the donations from parishioners,
some of whom may be angry enough to keep their wallets closed when the
collection plate passes their way. According to a March 27 Gallup poll,
30% of Catholics have wrestled with whether or not to continue giving
money to the church.

Then there's the dilemma of the already dwindling priesthood. The
average US clergyman is 60 years old, and as the sexual abuse crisis
shakes out, a few may be facing early retirement. For example, earlier
this month, the Archdiocese of New York defrocked six pedophiles it had
previously protected. Finding replacements may not be easy: From the
1960s to the mid-'90s, the number of candidates entering the seminary
fell 40% - a trend not likely to reverse as men of the cloth have been
telling reporters they've felt ashamed about wearing their collars in
public.

There is another way the church can utilize its followers' eagerness to
be involved in its affairs. Qorvis Communications partner Judy Smith
suggests that bishops could invite constituents to provide their input
and vent their criticisms at meetings. The next step would be to convene
independent review panels, which can convey to parishioners that their
suspicions about a priest's behavior will be evaluated objectively. "In
news organizations, they have an ombudsman. In law enforcement, when
people have complaints, quite frankly, they can't go to the officers, so
they have committees set up,

Smith says.

Thanks to Virtus, an initiative created by the National Catholic Risk
Retention Group, the church should soon know whether self-policing can
prove just as effective when it comes to reducing sexual abuse. In
February, the self-insurance consortium rolled out pilot programs in
Austin, TX, Kansas City, MO, and Manchester, NH.

"Virtus focuses not so much on why a perpetrator does this as it does on
what you need to do in order to spot it,

says the program's director,
Jack McCallum. "We're not just training the power structure - which is
what typically happens in a secular organization - but all the way down
to the volunteer level. I don't think there will be anything like it in
terms of tackling a problem, even in the corporate world."

Of course, it could be a while before Virtus - or policies like it - are
incorporated by dioceses nationwide. Progressives such as Curran argue
that, even then, the church's problem will not be solved. The only real
solution, they say, is to drop the rule that bans priests from
marrying.

It could take years to convince the Vatican to enact that change - if it
is ever enacted at all.

What's the church to do in the meantime? The bible and the most basic PR
textbook seem to point to the same strategy. When the Lewinsky imbroglio
left Bill Clinton floundering in the polls, he staged a prayer service
to ask for forgiveness. Some observers feel that the church - which
doesn't even have to outsource the ecclesiastical counsel - should do
the same.

The Reverend Thomas Reese, editor of the Jesuit magazine America, has
called for such a penance service to be held at the next national
gathering of the conference of bishops, which is scheduled to take place
this June.

"That will be the first opportunity to collectively address the issue as
a group,

agrees crisis expert Richard Torrenzano. "I would hope that
coming out of that meeting, there would be a plan for how they intend to
deal with this problem going forward.

"By letting people know what they intend to do,

he says, "the bishops
could do a great deal towards putting all of this behind them."

A FIRST-PERSON ACCOUNT OF A UNIQUE PR CHALLENGE

During the summer of 1997, a court in Texas ordered the Diocese of
Dallas to pay out nearly $120 million for harboring a priest who
had molested a series of altar boys. Less than a week after the
record-breaking verdict, Lisa LeMaster, the president of The LeMaster
Group, received a phone call: The bishop's office wanted her to step in
as its spokesperson and help shape a strategy for redeeming its
reputation.

"It was the most difficult crisis I've ever worked on,

says LeMaster,
who, as a non-Catholic woman, was a doubly unlikely candidate for the
role of the church's official messenger.

"When you work for the church, you're confronting more than just the
events.

There's a lot of history, tradition, and matters of faith. There are
also a lot of misperceptions. I can't tell you how many times I was
asked, 'Why don't they just call Rome and get the money?' People didn't
understand. It doesn't work like that."

The trick to dealing with unique challenges? "I had to compare it to a
business situation.

she says. "There's no way to spin something like
this. You have to show action, that you are putting new guidelines in
place to try to make sure this doesn't happen again."